Chapter 8 #2
I drop the notebook and pick a random photo frame beside the journals before I whip around. “Is this your…” I glance at the picture of young Cora with a man. “Your father?”
Thank God it’s not a picture of her cats. It would solve the question about their number, but make me scramble for a way to finish my question. And I’ve felt weirdly inadequate enough times tonight already.
She comes around the sofa and peeks at the picture.
“Yes, that’s me and my dad.” Her breath is minty… She did brush her teeth. It feels like a win.
The chances are it has nothing to do with me, but I’m not going to entertain that. She’s planning to keep that mouth of hers close to me. And I don’t mind.
“How is he doing?” I put the picture back beside the others. A few more with her dad and some with her friends. There are no cat pictures, so the mystery continues.
“He’s fine. It was a misunderstanding. He deleted an app icon from his home screen.” She shrugs and points toward the sofa, moving us away from the dresser.
I can’t be sure, but there is an urgency in her seemingly subtle attempt to relocate us. Like the dresser contains secrets she needs to protect.
I plop back onto the sofa. “It must have freaked him out. It’s easy for our generation, growing up swiping and scrolling, but for him… there must be a learning curve.”
Cora’s eyes crinkle in another soft smile. She is back in the armchair. Too far from me. “Wow, I didn’t expect this.”
“What?”
“Understanding instead of mocking the situation.”
“I like to keep things light, but that doesn’t mean I’m a cynical asshole.”
That enigmatic smile lingers. It has a direct line to my insides, warming up my chest and steering things south of there.
“So just an asshole.” She tries hard not to smile fully, but she’s failing miserably. It’s nice to see her like this—like she put aside the weight she usually carries on her shoulders.
“Hey, that was uncalled for.”
She giggles. “Okay, Xander, I apologize. And thank you for thinking of me on my birthday, under strange circumstances that make me want to call the police, but… I still appreciate you coming.”
“Though it seems you were not alone after all.” My eyes beckon to the coffee table.
“Saar, Celeste, and Lily came. We couldn’t go out because of the tabloids’ hunt for Lily, but a low-key night was perfect.”
“Is that how you always celebrate? With close ones only?”
She tips her head to the side. “Who else would I celebrate with?”
“I don’t know. My birthday parties at home used to involve hundreds of guests, most of whom I didn’t know.”
“Hundreds? Whatever for?”
“Mostly networking and business deals.”
“Wow, that’s… I don’t even know what to say.
Growing up, I usually spent it with my family.
We would go to a restaurant of my choice.
Later…” She pauses, and something flickers through her face, wiping away that casual, relaxed smiling expression.
“My mother left, and I would go out with my friends, but my father always waited for me with a bottle of Zinfandel. Ever since I was seventeen.”
“Illegal.” I mock outrage.
She giggles. “He allowed me only a sip or two at first. My first official drink happened when I turned twenty-one. It was more of a ritual than a drinking event. He talked about his dreams for the bistro… After Mother left, he never recovered, and the bistro was his only reprieve.”
“He must be so proud you took it over.”
She sighs. “Yeah, I hope he is.”
She looks away, and I wonder if we went too deep into the personal and spoiled the mood.
“I guess we had very different birthdays growing up,” she says, smiling at me again, but the ghost of whatever the conversation triggered prevails in her eyes, now veiled in sadness.
“My version was fucked up, but at least I got a lot of gifts.” I shrug.
“I have a feeling you didn’t really need anything growing up.”
“In a material sense, perhaps not.” I’m not ready to dissect that, so I cut the topic short. “Talking about gifts...” I pull out the envelope and hand it to her across the table. “Happy Birthday.”
She scoots forward and grabs it eagerly. “What is it?” She opens the flap and pulls out the paper, unfolding it. She frowns for a few moments, which seems to last long enough for me to doubt the gesture. “What is this?” she asks again.
“A deed.”
She rolls her eyes. “I can see that. But it’s for a piece of land, and there are only numbers and coordinates on it.”
“It’s an island in the Pacific Ocean.”
I have experienced a lot of excitement—fake or genuine—after I gifted a lot of useless expensive shit to women over the years, so I’m pretty sure I fucked up the minute I said the words.
The deed falls from Cora’s hands, and she blinks a few times, her jaw slackened. The worst part is she doesn’t say anything, so I’m not even sure if my internal freak-out is warranted. Maybe she is just surprised.
“I have a feeling it’s not a pleasant surprise,” I say.
She opens her mouth and closes it. Then she repeats the motion a few more times before she finally utters words. “I don’t want to be ungrateful, but this is the kind of gift you give someone who doesn’t need anything. And even then… what am I supposed to do with it?”
“Nothing; it’s just for fun, so you can say at parties that you have an island, or have it named after you…” I peter out because the words sound frivolous to me.
Fuck. She may have put it in her journal, but I guess I annihilated my lawyer to deliver on my impossible request for nothing, because when I look around this place, she would have benefited from a thousand other gifts.
The silence between us is next-level uncomfortable. I should probably leave, and avoid her from now on.
“Well, thank you.” She lets out a laugh that sounds a bit deranged, her sincerity wiped out by the stupid gift. “You’re right, it’s a funny gift. Unforgettable, for sure. Maybe next year you can gift me a plane ride to visit my property.” She gulps down her wine and refills it quickly.
I don’t even know what to say. I have never thought of gifts in terms of their practicality. She was right; I’ve never needed anything, and neither have people I know. Gifts have always been a question of originality, fun. Now they feel like empty gestures. Fuck.
“Cora—”
“No, Xander, don’t say anything. I understand you meant well. I understand we fly in different orbits. But as they say, it’s the thought that counts.” She drinks some more.
I take another sip. “Okay, lesson learned. But I think our orbits collide more than you’re willing to admit.”
She looks at me, the smile waning. “You seemed to have a rich social life this week.”
We both flinch at her sudden change of topic. Or I flinch at its direction, but it’s an opening to dig us out of the awkwardness, so I lean into it.
“Do I need to file a restraining order?”
She studies me for a beat, and the spark returns—our previous tension warming back to life. “Depends,” she breathes.
“On?”
Cora smiles, uncrosses her legs in a fluid motion, and stands up. She rounds the cluttered coffee table. Stumbling, she almost lands in the middle of it.
She giggles and sits—or rather falls—beside me. Fuck, gulping down her wine wasn’t the best idea.
Not that I ever cared about a woman drinking too much, but somehow I feel responsible for pushing her over her limit. With my stupid gift.
Cora angles her body toward me and puts her hand on my chest.
Her touch burns through my T-shirt, threatening to incinerate my common sense. Our gazes collide. Our breathing stutters.
I shift to face her. “Cora, as much as I—”
She slides her hand lower, not grabbing my dick, but massaging over the bulge in my pants. I groan.
“I can think of a better birthday gift.” She bites her lower lip.
I circle my fingers around hers and bring her hand to my mouth, dusting her knuckles with my lips.
“Coraline, believe me, I want to, but you’re drunk, and I don’t want to be your regret tomorrow.”
She pouts adorably. “You’re not living up to your reputation.”
“And believe me, it pains me.” I stand up, and she slides down onto her side, mumbling protests and closing her eyes. Covering her with a blanket, I kiss the crown of her head. “Goodnight, Coraline, and Happy Birthday.”
With one last look at her, I step out gingerly like the floor is barbed wire. She doesn’t look at me, shaking her head like she is regretting tonight.
I almost change my mind.
Almost.
The door closes behind me, and I stare at its wood with the slightly chipped paint, like staying here will somehow balance out the score… What score? Fuck.
Have I just refused sex?
With a woman I crave?
The worst timing ever to grow a conscience.